by Franz Austin V. De Mesa

Illustration by Franz Austin V. De Mesa

51754. Goodbye To A World – Porter Robinson

It has been two hours and 27 minutes since the last airstrike rained down on Pasay City. Ten thousand rounds of high explosive covered Buendia to Baclaran in a blanket of pyromania, toppling all the houses out of their foundations, blistering buildings with holes and broken windows, showering the streets with sharp fractals and piles of debris. Stone, cement, fire, blood. Utter decimation. The sky, in its unchanging terminal illness, was clouded in smoke, the air so thick with ash that my larynx was clogged and I couldn’t push out a scream for help if I wanted to. 

The vehicles on EDSA had stopped for good, their dead batteries part of the world that vanished, the world before 2042 when things still made sense and the city still functioned in its slow, inefficient, nearly paralyzed way of operating, but at least still functioned, and all that people complained about were gas prices rising, or the jeepney fare going up a few pesos, or some slimy politician’s scandals—as if there was any hope for Philippine politics to change for the better—where all that people could talk about was gossip, or fitting in, or worrying about if this guy or that girl likes me, if I should quit, have a bigger salary, retire to the province, go to another country, or what I’d do if the world ended tomorrow, never actually thinking that the world would end tomorrow. 

That world had been gone for decades already. Since then, Metro Manila has been thrown into a civil war and became known as No Man’s Land, and everyone left was already dead or dying, fleeing or trying their best to flee to the provinces before being gunned down or bombed to shit by the Philippine Commission Against Terrorism.

Metro Point Mall itself was in a sorry state as much as the rest of the ruined metropolis of Pasay. Sunlight was poking through a large hole in the ceiling, inviting the smoke, ash, and acid rain into its interior. Sure enough, the dirt and debris and vegetation that had piled up for years indicated that no one had been here since the start of the war. Vines, moss, and mushrooms had already started sprouting in some areas, creating a patchwork of dark green and black against the white walls of what once was a city within a city, filled with people from all over Metro Manila. The LRT and MRT stations had both stopped functioning since PCAT decided to blow up its own base of operations within the area. Nothing was left in the stores that were of any use, not that I needed any of them. I didn’t have much longer, after all.

I limped every time I took a step. The blood trickled down my leg at a steady pace. I could still hear the bombs fine, but my vision was getting blurry. A piece of scaffolding was lodged into my thigh, courtesy of the last air strike. A purple ring was beginning to form and swell around the wound: a death sentence in No Man’s Land. The rest of my group probably thought I was dead already. There would be no cavalry, no envoy, no rescue team. This was it, I told myself. 

And yet, I continued to move. Perhaps it was because I was raised by cats as much as I raised them that I felt the need to keep moving: not to survive, but to look for a place to die. If I were to go, I would want it to be with someone. No one wants to die alone. But since I was alone, perhaps a place I was familiar with would be the next best thing. The warmth of memory was as good as any hand to hold, I suppose.

Wading through the abandoned mall, I saw that on the fourth floor, there was a sign that was teeming with light. I found it odd that electricity would still work in this post-apocalyptic department store, so like a moth to a flame, I decided to take the effort going up there. If only the escalators also worked. I crawled up on the broken metal staircase and found that the kaleidoscopic glow came from the Timezone arcade. A flood of nostalgia suddenly came rushing, and I thought of the days we spent as children without a care in the world playing air hockey and basketball and shooting zombies with plastic guns. Sadly, the games themselves were devoid of life now, and only the lights seemed to function. Still, I went further inside, dragging my bleeding limb across the floor, and here, I heard the faint buzzing of music. 

I searched for that electric sound. In the furthest corner of the arcade, there were a bunch of small Karaoke TV rooms, all dark and decrepit as the world outside. But one booth seemed to beam with illumination, and the sound effects coming from its muffled speakers seemed to compliment my excitement, as if I had finally victoriously triumphed. A KTV machine, a piece of technology from the old world, was miraculously still functioning. It was one of the later models too, since it had many of the songs from the double O’s and 10’s—our parents’ generation. 

Remember how Mom and Dad used to play only their songs in the car? It was all saved in this one playlist on the old music app, Spotify. Euterpe didn’t exist yet. Until now I can still hear the screaming vocals of Linkin Park blasting in the stereo system of our Honda, or the edgy intensity of All American Rejects bleeding into our ears, or the suggestive lyrics of Eminem and Drake which our parents didn’t think we already understood at the time. And God, don’t even get me started on K-Pop. 

I took the dusty booklet from the table and glanced through the thousands of songs that were etched into its plastic pages. Suddenly, the synapses in my brain that produced happiness, which I thought to be long dead, suddenly fired up all at once at the sight of all those long dead artists: Lorde, Radiohead, the Script, Taylor Swift, Bruno Mars, Munimuni, Japanese Breakfast… I felt like I was a kid again, listening to Mom and Dad’s songs. Each song title made me think of different memories, of different parts of my life. Times when I was with you. Times when we were together with Mom and Dad, Lolo and Lola. I picked up the microphone and flipped the switch on. My hand vibrated at the touch of electricity, and the echo of my voice resounded through the booth. 

As soon as that happened, it was like magic. I saw images on the TV screen: places, things, people—never recorded on any camera or device, yet they were things that only I could have known. It’s like someone scooped up my brain and splattered it across the screen like a film. It was then that I knew, they were my memories.

92142. Little Dark Age – MGMT

I was in school when I first watched the proclamation on September 21, 2042. Our Ethics professor at the time, Sir Tirano, was this loud and flamboyant icon who wore floral shirts and colorful pants, who was outspoken and unapologetic to students and teachers alike. There was something to be admired about his vocal personality, even if he wasn’t a very good teacher. I remember many of us hated him because he gave low grades and long sermons, and seldom did he actually teach us. Most of the time he would simply go off on a tangent and talk about his day, bore us with his trivial problems like the Lazada delivery that didn’t arrive on the date it was supposed to, or the time when he was almost possessed by an evil spirit, or the time when the NIU buffet served spoiled shrimp. It sounded like it was about to lead to a point, an awkward but plausible transition into our lesson about, say, Kant’s Axe or utilitarianism or the trolley problem, (maybe his story had something to do about Ethics) but that ship never really quite made it to port. In fact, it always got lost at sea. 

But on that auspicious day, during his class at 2:07PM—when he took a look at his phone, saw the text that said “EMERGENCY BROADCAST, PRESIDENT” that all of us received, and he said, “Class, let’s stop for now. There will be an emergency broadcast by the President. Pakinggan nating lahat,” in a soft and quiet, nearly trembling voice—everyone looked to him for solace and safety. Everyone in the room gave their complete trust to him. When we watched President Baste Duterte, the Lesser Son, give his speech, and heard words like “Martial Law,” “War Zone,” and “Evacuate Immediately,” the room suddenly became very quiet, and even great big Sir Tirano couldn’t whip out any of his usual witty comebacks. In just a few minutes, the world we lived in had changed, and the end of everything was starting to unfold. All Sir Tirano could say, in his trembling voice, was “I’m sorry, class. I’m sorry. Suspended na yung klase. Uwi na kayo. Be with your family,” as he rushed out of the room.

At the time, I didn’t even understand what was happening. None of us did. The TV still showed the same teleseryes and the same news of kidnappings and drunken violence, the repetitive media buzz about this celebrity shacking up with this celebrity, this scandal and that scandal. There was never news about Mindanao, or about the Lumads being killed or schools being shot up. Nothing about the rebels being armed by American backers, or the new Chinese military excursions happening in the sea. None of us knew that there was a problem in our country, leaking little by little, until one day it all blew up. The next thing we knew, we had to leave our house in Malibay and go straight to Pampanga. No looking back. Not even the slightest hesitation. Go now or get shot on sight, the news on Facebook said.

That’s probably when you also changed. Growing up as the younger sibling, you didn’t have my responsibilities. You didn’t have to think about how to iron clothes, or wash the dishes, or how to pass college in a course you didn’t like, or where to find a job, or how to pay debts. Only three years separated you and me, yet I never could’ve had what you had. You were free. Free to pursue the finer things in life like democracy and politics, language and history, all those ideas about fighting for the poor and having equality, Bonifacio and Rizal and all the old dusty books they wrote hundreds of years ago that they didn’t teach anymore because school stopped existing. You could have been anyone, chosen to be anything, while all I could do was follow in someone else’s footsteps. Follow the path set out for me. 

I often wondered what would’ve happened if we switched places, if I was born in 2025 instead of you. You’d be the one taking care of me, studying business, working the hours. And maybe you didn’t have to feel so responsible for the civil war. Maybe then, you’d still be alive. 

62547. Ribs – Lorde

The night before you died, I dreamt of you. 

We were sitting in our old home back in Malibay over a plate of coffee, pandesal, and hotdog slices with ketchup that Mom always used to make for us. And before I could get a bite in, you said that you had to go somewhere far away, and that you weren’t coming back. The thought of you leaving this world before me seemed like an impossibility. I was older, I was supposed to take care of you, I was supposed to be an example to you. And I tried my best to do that: telling you to trust me, to do what our parents tell us, to keep a low profile, finish your education in camp, and stop thinking about joining whatever ragtag band of suicidal mountaineers with guns and red bandanas was recruiting you. But you were stubborn, and you never listened to me when it counted.

When I woke up, I was back in our family’s tent at the Pampanga Refugee Camp, and Makati was a war zone again. Fred, one of your comrades, called and told us the news. Dad couldn’t stop crying and howling. Mom was quiet and went outside to have a smoke until she didn’t have any cigarettes left. As for me, I couldn’t feel anything at first but anger. Anger at your stupidity and your carelessness. You  were trying to do what exactly? Prove something to yourself? Put your life on the line for pride? Or did you think you were going to be some hero, some revolutionary leader? 

You didn’t even last a month. I doubt you even killed a soldier during all that time. Dumbass, imbecile, tanga, inutil, bobo, why’d you have to go and die like that, and in a place like Maginhawa no less!  So far from us, so far from any of the safe zones or Pasay where you could have died somewhere familiar. Instead, you were out bleeding, alone, with the sound of bombs and gunfire in a city that doesn’t know you, where you know no one. No family by your side. It scared me to think that was what you experienced. I couldn’t protect you like I promised I would. I should’ve been there. I couldn’t even say sorry. 

I was never really good at apologies, especially when it came to you. You were this snotty boy that our parents seemed to shower with affection for every little thing you did while I was always handed discipline. I loved them, but that was the thing I despised about them. And to say sorry meant that I’d be admitting they were right to love you more than me. But you loved me despite all that. 

 After you died, I joined the Resistance. Maybe it was some kind of penance, a way to ensure your death wasn’t in vain, so that we could finally bury your body and put your soul at rest. Maybe I did it so that the world could finally be a better place. Or maybe I just wanted the nightmares to disappear. Whatever it was, in the end, I didn’t accomplish any of them. 

In the thirty years that have gone and went since then, the war only seemed to get worse, and it wasn’t stopping anytime soon. I’ve only sent people to their doom, made mistakes I could never take back, made promises I couldn’t keep. My group looked to me for leadership, but I couldn’t even save my own brother. And now I was going to die. 

I never found your body, and the nightmares never stopped.

40821. The Kids From Yesterday – My Chemical Romance

I remember that during the start of our summers, we were stuck in EDSA traffic, fighting the April heat. 

At 10 in the morning, on our way to the province, we convinced ourselves that time moved at a slower pace on that road than any other congested road in the country. All of the world seemed to stop as we entered the gauntlet of angry drivers and the demonic blasting of car horns and ambulance sirens. Almost every time, there’d be some new construction project or collision incident a few miles ahead. Sometimes rain would cut in, or a storm, or a checkpoint, a random drug test and vehicle checkup. The minutes sizzled and the hours stretched as our car humbly advanced, inch by inch, to our destination. Sometimes, we waited in traffic for as much as seven hours straight, and all I could do was stare outside the window at all the other cars and buildings that were as paralyzed as we were, listening to music on my airpods.  In the end, we always arrived an hour later than what we told Lolo and Lola.

It was a magical sort of experience, to look outside the car window while listening to music. Seeing trees pass by on the NLEX while listening to Radiohead or My Chemical Romance, counting the number of gas stations with Japanese Breakfast or Aurora in the background: a relaxing kind of boring. 

I always came back to this memory while we were stuck in the Pampanga Camp during those nights we couldn’t sleep because of hunger. Or when I was holed up in wartorn NCR, not knowing whether today would be the day I’d join you to the great beyond. Back in that car, I felt like one of those main characters in coming-of-age movies, the center of attention going through a brooding, angsty teen phase, and the whole world seemed to revolve around me. Rejection from my crush was my only worry, or reviewing for a test, or thinking of what to wear when hanging out at the mall with friends.

Our Lolo’s house in the province was somewhat large and roomy, at least compared to our condo in Malibay, and more so when compared to our tent in the Pampanga Refugee Camp. Something I only noticed during high school was how many people our Lolo and Lola seemed to know: neighbors, coworkers, the man who sold fish and meat at the market, the old woman who worked at the sari-sari store by the corner of the street, the water delivery boy—perhaps it was because of their age, or maybe they were extroverts, or maybe it was because life in the province was really just different compared to the city.

One time, while on a jeep in Makati, I saw a speeding car nearly kill a pedestrian who was trying to cross the street during a red light. The bumper of that Toyota was only a few centimeters away from displaying the woman’s guts across the pavement for all to see, yet that life-threatening interaction merely ended with a swift reprimand from the driver, and an apology from the woman. Then as quick as that, they both went their separate ways. They probably never saw each other again. And before I could turn to think about helping the woman, the jeep sped away from the scene and I never saw them again.

Now, life in the city seemed to be the opposite. Desolate and lifeless, lacking any humanity, yet the people that came here with me—all of these supposed strangers from different parts of the country—were now my family, too. They’d die for me, kill for me, and I’d do the same for them. Mei was like the twin sister I always wanted to have. Haro came all the way from Iloilo, a doctor at that, and now he was one of our bravest soldiers and a big brother to us all. Jonnie was everyone’s mother, yet I found her years back with a cutter deep into her wrist. It took the destruction of this place before it seemed like an actual community. 

Yet, sometimes, I hoped that all of this was a dream. I wasn’t living the life of some revolutionary criminal in my 30’s, and you were still alive. We were sitting fast asleep in the car, and Dad was driving us to Lolo and Lola’s place. Mom would be blasting Fallout Boy on the speakers, and count gas stations.

I’d wake to the sound of MCR, and look at trees.

10453. Safe and Sound (Taylor’s Version) – Taylor Swift

October 4, 2053. Only four artillery strikes today. The storm must have made it hard for the planes to go about their daily motions. Ren’s suggestion to move was a good call, since Mei scouted PhilCAT soldiers searching our old base. If it hadn’t been for the rain and the basement flooding, we would have eaten bullets for breakfast. 

During the day, we mostly sat tight and kept quiet. No music for at least three days. Too dangerous to go out in the sunlight. PhilCAT was quite heavy in the Quezon area. Jonnie read The Little Prince to the children. Mark cooked the food: canned sardines. 

 During the evening, Haro and Ysha gathered some supplies from an old military shipment just a few blocks away. The rain and darkness veiled them from the enemy. I was strongly against it, but at least they weren’t detected, thank God. We could still live for another day. Haro and Ysha were able to get medicine: paracetamol and some vitamin supplements, along with face masks, alcohol, and five rolls of tissue paper—the thick, absorbent kind, too. Frankie can finally take a shit in peace. There were also a few dozen food rations and canned goods dated just a year or two after their expiration date. No weapons though. Ammo was still scarce. We were hoping to regroup with Delta Team and resupply in Rizal by the end of the month. 

We lived through the day without any casualties. No burning buildings to run through this time. No clawing through barbed wire to escape, no gun fights that ended with perforated bodies. All we ate were less-than-a-year expired canned sardines, and there wasn’t the smell of burning flesh or the sting of tear gas, no screaming of mothers holding their children’s cold arms. We didn’t have to bury anyone, or get anxious over a missing person from our headcount. We didn’t need to worry about torture or death, at least, for just a little while. There were still nightmares, and there was still rain, and there was still tomorrow to think about. 

But today was a better day than most, and more than we could ever hope for, ever since we stepped foot on No Man’s Land.

70850. Leave Me Out of It – She’s Only Sixteen

I never got the chance to tell you about Benny. Sure enough, you two would’ve been best friends, or worst enemies. 

When I first joined the Resistance at Camp Bonifacio, I was just this frail, helpless thing that couldn’t even open a jar of mayonnaise. The only sort of combat training I’d ever done was mandatory ROTC in high school and college, and even then I barely passed. Fred was kind enough to have shown me the ropes, trained with me and sparred with me at the camp. He knew I was way over my head, but he saw my passion, I suppose, or maybe it’s just because I was your sister and he felt some kind of debt to pay me, or maybe they just needed more human shields to aid in their advance against PhilCAT. Whatever it was, I signed my own death sentence just by being there, and became an enemy of the state.

It was in Camp Bonifacio where I met Benny. Fred introduced us to each other. Benny wasn’t really particularly dashing or athletic, but he was tall. His voice was also pipsqueak-ish and soft, with a strong Bisaya accent that should’ve lacked confidence, yet he had a glow about him, some kind of provincial charisma that commanded respect from people. He was a simple Katipon like many of us. Brave, stupidly selfless, and marked for death. And like with Jason, or Dan, or Roger, or Migs—my past exes that you’ve heard me cry over time and time again over the years—I fell in love with Benny.

I’m sure you would have also fallen in love with him, because he seemed to be the quintessential member of the Resistance, the one soldier that made everyone believe, or want to believe, that there was a chance. He was like a character straight out of Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere. Benny was the farthest from being violent, yet he was ready to fight. He wasn’t the smartest or the strongest, not even the boldest or most passionate patriot, but he was ready. He seemed to float on a river, Sampaguitas in one hand, revolver in the other, with white shirt and red bandana while others still swam against the current. Benny was the Resistance when it came to the people of Camp Bonifacio, because while Supremo Calahi could stay and give his commands in Cavite Main Headquarters, Benny was here with us in Metro Manila. He was willing to fight with us and die with us on the frontlines. And that’s exactly what he did, to the bitter end and then some.

Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Before that sad conclusion came, we got to know each other. He was an Engineering student from Cebu. Parents were journalists; killed during the First Storm. Three years after we met, during a rescue mission in Antipolo, our team stayed at a church. It had been some few months since we last saw each other. To be honest, with how seldom we met, and with his rising to the rank of Bayani and I to Kawal, we were still barely past kilig and landian, the courting stage of our relationship. We never even clarified if we were in a relationship. 

But when we saw each other at that church, I knew that we would probably never get another opportunity like it. So, with some few dusty linens, a bunch of rebel witnesses, and a bruised-up officiant with a pistol who “had some notion” on what to say for a ceremony, we went through that illusion of matrimony, of a cherished bond and a vow to protect each other, a vow to love each other until death. And we did. 

By God, we did. 

And that illusion was adamant to stay long after I saw him get stabbed in the chest. 

51754. The Last Song – The All American Rejects

This was our first memory together, even though it wasn’t really a memory for me. It’s a combination of hazy, blurry images that I may or may not have experienced, or perhaps it was a dream that I conjured up in my mind, but I was three years old, and you were just a baby, no larger than any of our cats—this tiny, innocent little thing who cried and cried in Mom’s tired arms—and she asked me if I wanted to hold your hand. 

And without hesitation, I held your hand. It was squishy, like gel, and I thought that if I pushed hard enough, it’d pop like a balloon, and you’d cry and bleed and Mom would hate me forever. So I held your arm gently, light as a feather, and felt how warm it was, how it could almost jolt with electricity and buzz with life. It made me feel at peace, even if at that age I probably didn’t know what the word “peace” meant. But remembering that now, it felt like everything was going to be alright. I was going to hold your hand, and there would be nothing to worry about. This time, could you hold my hand, brother? 

The microphone was warm to the touch, reverberating with electricity, a pulse, and the empty room echoed with the whining of a sad bassoon. I can see on the screen that the score of my singing was 81. It didn’t even make it to the average. 

“Shet…” I whispered and forced a chuckle before I felt the mic slip from my fingers. 

Suddenly, the cold came, a harsh icicle biting in the leg where the heat of bleeding should have been. I never thought it could be this cold in the Philippines. I couldn’t feel both legs anymore, couldn’t move. 

I blinked, and the screen of the TV was black. There were no lights. Nothing but darkness and the cold. But my hand could still feel warmth, could still feel the pulsing waves of static, of music and memory. Suddenly, I remembered that poem you once told me. I couldn’t remember the exact words, but it started with this line: This is the world we wanted… And…what came after that? I remembered it was sad, and… what was I saying? 

My body trembled. My eyes felt heavy. I felt like someone was holding my hand, and watching over me as I drifted off– 

I smiled, thought of trees.

About the Author. Franz Austin V. De Mesa is a fiction writer with an unnatural appetite for horror, fantasy, and dystopian sci-fi stories. A certified anime and gaming enthusiast, he writes to explore the dark parts of humanity and indulge in his fascinations with the macabre, alternate timelines, and other what-if scenarios lurking in our world. For his undergraduate thesis, he wrote a collection of interactive short stories, which was awarded Best Thesis in Creative Writing. He is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Santo Tomas. His story, IN(DE)CISION, was published in Philippine Genre Stories in May, 2023.